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expertly tailored dress. Usually Peggy spent a long time
with any clothes she bought, washing and pressing them so that they would look their best, in addition to the other washing and sewing she took in to keep afloat. But these clothes needed no
improvement – they were new and of good quality.
    ‘Why did ’er give ’em yer, Mom?’ Rachel had asked as they went home that night, clutching their chips.
    ‘She, not
’er
,’ Peggy said sharply. ‘
She
. For the love of God speak properly, not like those urchins at school.
She
said they were her
sister’s. I never asked any more. P’raps they’d had a death in the family. It wasn’t as if she’d tell
me
, was it?’
    As they went to set up their pitch that morning – the day of Danny – in the middle of the market, Rachel saw, to her consternation, that another woman was with her mother and that an
argument was brewing. She had seen the lady before and she was rather fascinating – tall and voluptuous and wearing a dress with rusty-coloured flowers all over it. Her broad, big-boned face
was heavily powdered, the lips bright scarlet, and her thick blonde hair topped by a wide-brimmed hat.
    ‘You just move over!’ the woman boomed at Peggy. Beside her were bundles of clothes in disorderly heaps. ‘You’re on my pitch – look, you’ve pinched nearly a
yard – I’m paying for this. You just clear off!’
    Peggy had her hands on her waist and was standing tall, looking proud and disdainful. ‘You just stop shouting at me,’ she was saying. ‘You only need to ask. There’s no
call to be so unpleasant.’
    ‘Eh, eh, now, ladies . . .’ a deep, tobacco-laden voice interrupted. Rachel saw the person they called the Toby Man, with his pouch at his waist, striding over towards them. He was a
solidly built man with a bottle-green neckerchief tied in the opening of his shirt, and a cap resting at a sideways angle on his head, from under which looked out a fleshy face with brown,
twinkling eyes. His manner was relaxed, as if dealing with squabbling women was a completely familiar part of the job. But he knew he was in charge. ‘What’s going on ’ere
then?’
    ‘’Er’s pushing onto my pitch . . .’ the red-lipped woman began again. ‘These casuals don’t know how to go on. This is mine – up to ’ere,
see?’ Rachel could see her mother seething but she was holding her anger in. It would do her no good to get into a fight. ‘Tell ’er to move over. I ain’t paid for my patch
to ’ave ’er moving in on it.’
    The Toby Man eyed Peggy up and down. He stroked his stubbly chin for a moment, and considered the wares the two women were setting out.
    ‘So far as I know,’ the Toby Man retorted, ‘you ain’t paid for nowt yet today, Aggie, so yer’d best button it ’til you ’ave.’
    ‘’Ere’s my money –’ The woman rummaged about in her cleavage and slammed some coins into the man’s outstretched hand. The Toby Man made a comical face.
    ‘Flamin’ ’ell, Aggie – where’s this lot been?’
    ‘Never you mind,’ Aggie said tartly, rearranging her upper storey by yanking at her clothes so that her mountainous breasts lurched about. ‘Now you tell that one –’
she nodded her head towards Peggy – ‘to pay up and shove over.’
    ‘Here you are,’ Peggy said quietly, holding out her own rent for the pitch. Her solemn face and neat, simple dress automatically gave her a dignified appearance.
    ‘Ta.’ The Toby Man looked intently down at the ground where the goods were laid out as if reading it in some way, then declared, with a wave of his hand, ‘Move yerself over a
foot this way, missis. Aggie’s right – you’re too far over.’
    ‘Told yer, didn’ I?’ Aggie crowed. ‘That’s it – you shift yerself.’
    Aggie stood, arms folded, and was obviously not going to move until Peggy did as she commanded. Without responding or looking at her neighbour, Peggy tugged at the edge of her sheets, easing the